


Between Pages: a Watson & Agnes mystery

by KateLivewire, whilewilde



Category: Original Work
Genre: Best Friends, Character Death, Childhood Friends, Detectives, Established Relationship, Fluff, Ghosts, I've never tagged an original work before help, Multi, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Reunions, School Reunion, Sherlock AU, basically weird stuff happens that's the whole point, oh also there's spooky stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25359808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateLivewire/pseuds/KateLivewire, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whilewilde/pseuds/whilewilde
Summary: "People don't just go missing, do they? I mean, really?"Ten years ago, Watson and Agnes had a falling out in college. Since then, they've avoided all contact—until a friend from their old mystery club dies. The two find themselves thrown together after being the recipients of threatening, anonymous emails. As they are haunted by old ghosts, two fundamental questions emerge: who is out to get them, and what exactly for?
Relationships: Original Character(s) & Original Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. Letter (2019)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! this is our first original work together. You can find us on most sites with the same handles as our AO3 ones.

_ Dear Watson, _

_ HOw are you??? I heard that the funeral was today. I know you’re probably still at the wake but I can’t just sit here and wait. I swear to god you better tell me how he looked. Did they dress him up in a suit??? He was always very handsome. I wonder if that translates over in death. ANYWAY so the main purpose of this email is that---ok I know you’re gonna say I’m crazy but hear me out pinky promise---I think we need to look into his death. Like, I know they said it was a natural heart attack and blah blah he was young but it could happen to anyone but WE KNEW HE WAS FIGHTING FIT!! It just doesn’t make sense. I know you’re still grieving and I am too but...when we’re ready we have to find out more. I already snooped into his social media a bit and idk some of these comments are fishy. There’s this girl who’s liked ALL of his pictures (although I don’t blame her he is cute), and this guy who comments stuff like “I bet you liked her” and “I can’t forgive you” which is sssuper creepy and I know that could be a coincidence BUT THIS DOESN’T FEEL RIGHT. Don’t you agree?? _

_ Well anyway that’s all for now. Email me back when you feel well enough. And don’t forget to drink those herbal tea leaves I gave you!! They heal your soul I swaer.  _

_ All my love, _

_ Amelia _

  
  
  
  


_ Agnes, _

_ First of all, your no-show at the funeral DID NOT go unnoticed. I would have been concerned about your behaviour in regards to missing them, were it not for the fact that you have done this at all 5 previous funerals. He was dressed in a suit, although it wasn’t an open casket, so I don’t suppose how one would know unless they had the powers of deduction that I myself, possess. I wouldn’t worry yourself too much, these things do happen, you know, especially when someone smokes 6 packets a day. Thank you for the herbal tea leaves, I ended up feeding them to my small gecko, Sherlock.  _

_ There is another pressing issue at hand: the state of your bloody email! First of all, “super” requires one ‘s’, please let us not destroy the English language as spoken by Oscar Wilde with American-isms. Also, it is swear, not “swaer” although I confess I am impressed by your destruction of a word so simple. The other issue is that of your name? Were it not for me knowing your typing style off by heart, I could have easily have been mistaken. Who is Amelia? Are you in danger? Or is it another one of your silly turns? _

_ I wouldn’t think too much about the death of our friend. He probably isn’t. _

_ Watson.  _

  
  
  


Agnes sat back in her chair, reading the email over and over, trying to make it make sense. “He probably isn’t?” She spun around in her wheely chair, trying to figure out what Watson was on about this time.  It had been 10 years since they had last met, and the parting hadn’t been amicable by anyone’s standards. They had just graduated from Cambridge, and they were both trying to figure out what to do with their lives. Graduation day, she supposed, had been the final straw. Watson had been pushing her towards a career in education for years, but this time she was driving Agnes up the wall.

The problem wasn’t that they didn’t see eye-to-eye on this issue in particular, it was just that Watson had spent the last 3 years on Criminology, whereas Agnes was more all about Psychology and learning about the people who had died, not the how and why of their deaths.  This led to many arguments over who had the more necessary major. Watson argued that her major helped catch criminals, and therefore was more helpful to the public, while Agnes argued that her major helped society avoid past mistakes so there wouldn’t  _ be  _ any criminals! Like she said to anyone who asked what happened to the partners in crime, it was stupid and pointless.  But 4 years and 2 emails later, things were different. It wasn’t just that their friendship didn’t feel as warm—it was like they were on completely separate planets! And Agnes didn’t want it to continue that way. She didn’t quite like Watson’s tone in her email, but she had to extend an olive branch, so she decided to not mention that in her reply. 

As Agnes brought her legs up to her chest, thinking of what to write next, Watson was over 500 miles away in London, completely focused on a first edition of A Study In Scarlet. Just as she got to the part where Hope’s corpse was found with a smile on his face, she remembered the first time she read this story. It was the Summer before the beginning of second year, at which point most freshers had settled in and found their friend groups. Not Watson, though. She had tried to reach out to her flatmates, but they were all busy with their own cliques. There seemed to be no one else who understood her obscure literary references or shared her love for Arthur Conan Doyle. So, the library had become her safe haven by default. If she went early enough, she could just avoid the students who were simply dicking about and making a racket because they needed a change of scene. But it seemed as if Fate had gotten tired of seeing her sulk about the dusty corridors, for it was this story that led her to Agnes. As soon as she opened the book, she saw the name of the last person who’d checked it out. “Agnes Brown” sounded like the kind of name that you would find in a book set in an old English village, not a name someone would willingly give their child in  2019 —and add to that, it was written in the most flamboyant handwriting she had ever seen. As Watson headed off to the counter to check it out for the first time that term, she ran right into someone, sending them—and the much treasured book—flying.    
  
“I’m so sorry! I’m afraid I wasn’t watching where I was going.” A figure stood up, dusted itself off, and offered her a hand. 

“I—I suppose that’s quite alright. I’m sorry, I was daydreaming,” Watson replied sheepishly, wishing the ground would swallow her whole. She took the hand that was offered, and was pulled up to see another girl around her own age.

There was an awkward pause that hung in the air, during which neither said anything at all. Meanwhile, Watson suddenly became very interested in the old red carpet. The silence was broken by the stranger, who, after waiting patiently for Watson to say something, finally pulled out a sweet and pressed it into Watson’s hand. “You look like you need a bit of a pick-up. This will do the trick!”   
  


“Thank you.” Watson fumbled with the wrapper and popped the sweet into her mouth. Finally regaining her confidence, she straightened her back and lifted her head to see the stranger in more detail.  She was startled by black eyes that sparkled brightly, paired with a smile that showed ominously sharp canines. 

This was the face that Watson would soon become acquainted with, and people would later comment on how Agnes and Watson couldn’t be more different. Watson had inherited the gentle expressions of a 1940s actor: a sharp jawline, dull brown eyes, and light brown hair, which, once long past her shoulders, had since been tamed into an undercut. She looked the more docile of the two, but appearances could be misleading.

PING

The sound of a new email simultaneously snapped the two back to present day and caused Agnes to fall out of her beloved wheely chair. As she climbed back into her seat, she clicked on the email.

_ To whom it may concern (and believe me, it DOES concern you two), _

_ I assume by now you’ve seen something fowl occur, and if you haven’t… Well, here’s your wake up call.  _

_ Admittedly, I’m disappointed with the results of this one, but two out of three ain’t bad. Isn’t it so? You aren’t out of the woods yet, i’m afraid. You see, there’s something I need. I can’t tell you any more, that would be far too easy.  _

_ I’ll be in touch. _

_ Your friend. _

Watson was puzzled. Fowl? Surely their criminal counterpart would at least know how to spell. How terribly sad, she supposed, that today’s supervillains couldn’t even spell and now emailed their threats. Was the traditional ‘sticking letters on blank paper’ not good enough for them now? As she despaired at the state of the world, Watson did begin to ponder the origins of such a note. One thing was for sure, this meant that their friend was most definitely murdered. How and by whom were questions that still required answers, but they would come in due course. For now, Watson was worried about Agnes. Of course, they weren’t as close as they once were (and there was a good reason for that), but Watson wondered if perhaps it was time to look past any disagreement, just this once to save a life. Besides, it would make fantastic content for a book one day.


	2. One Friday in December (2012)

Agnes was always one of those people who just went about life, unbothered about most things. She had adopted the attitude of her blue-collar father, who had provided a welcome balance to the harsh and often pedantic behavior of her mother. Floating around on this earth had its perks, of course. She had passed school with acceptable grades (pretty great, if you asked her), while her school reports had always read the usual "bright, but needs to pay more attention in class". But although she was extremely sociable, she never quite found someone who understood her inner workings. In the years before college, she felt an inner loneliness that no one could breach.

Naturally, that all changed the second Watson walked into her life. The two were an unlikely pair; Watson was definitely more academic than her, with Agnes being more creative. Theoretically, they shouldn’t have worked, but then again, she had always said that she  _ really  _ hated theoretics. The two would go the local student bar together on Fridays and Saturdays, with every other day being spent in the library, poring over books or throwing around the age old question of: “what will you do when this is all over?,” never coming up with a suitable answer. The two probably worked because they were so different. Watson was never arrogant, and never laughed when Agnes got something wrong; likewise, Agnes always went along with her friend's wild schemes and outrageous stories, lapping them up as if they might be the last stories she would ever hear. 

It was a Friday in December when they decided to form their mystery club. A thick blanket of white snow layered the campus, barely touched since most students were hurrying to get home before the January gloom set in. Agnes remembered it vividly because the bar's heating was broken that night, so the two were sitting at their usual booth, bundled up in thick coats,occasionally rubbing their hands together to get the blood flowing again. Watson had been getting the rounds in as some kind of Christmas present to herself, and Agnes finally saw what they meant when they said that you couldn’t drink an English person under the table, ever.

“Y’know, mate, I think we’re just wasting our time here,” Watson began, slurring her words slightly as she clutched her fifth vodka coke in her hands.

“You have one term left, Watson.” Agnes reminded her companion, rolling her eyes. Watson often became broody and sad around December.

“Mmm,” Watson took a gulp from her drink, placing the empty glass back on the table with a thump, “see I want to be a real copper, but without the police… stuff. We could be actual detectives, you know?” She went to rest her elbow on the table, only to miss and to almost collide headfirst with the tabletop.

“Actual detectives happen in stories, Watson. We live in the real world," Agnes muttered, stirring her warm lemonade absent-mindedly.

“Calm down mate, you sound like me.” Watson offered a cheeky smile as she raised her glass in the general direction of the bartender to signal for another drink.

“I’m sorry.” Agnes sighed. It was going to be another lonely Christmas.

Watson jumped up all of a sudden. "Y'know what, we should start a mystery club!" She spread her arms wide and shouted for the whole bar to hear, "A MYSTERY CLUB!"

Agnes laughed for the first time that day. Drunk Watson was really something else. "Alright, alright, no need to announce it." Watson sat down, pouting like a scolded child. Agnes' expression softened, and she patted her friend's hand. "I think it’s a cool idea.”

“Fucking hell it is! It’s like Scooby Doo for alcoholics, ain’t it?” The two let out a small chuckle as the next round was placed on the table, Watson nodding in silent thanks.

"Will we do it until Christmas?" Agnes wasn’t asking so much as hoping.

“I’m going to be a bit busy going home back to London. I imagine you’re busy as well.” 

As soon as Watson said that, Agnes felt her heart sink. They had only been friends for three years, it was true, but Agnes had told her friend of the circumstances at home a hundred times before. As soon as she'd gotten a job to support herself, her parents had disappeared from her life, glad to be rid of her. It wasn't as if she missed them, but at times like these, a part of her wished she had somewhere to go home to. Agnes sighed heavily, fighting back tears in her eyes as she considered leaving early to cry in her flat - not for the first or last time in their friendship. 

Watson noticed the look on Agnes' face and quickly added, “I mean, of course, you could always come and stay with me. We could run the club for two weeks, then give an assignment before we go away for the holidays?” Watson shrugged, acting as if what she said had no weight to it at all.

It was one of those things that Agnes had noticed about her friend early on. Watson was always unbothered in her own way, prone to dark moods and avoidant of displays of affection from anyone at all, including friends. It just didn’t seem to make sense when paired with Agnes’ over-the-top personality, warmth, and love of hugs; but after a while, Agnes came to find Watson's nonchalant way of caring adorable. 

“You’re serious?” Agnes was one step away from physically vaulting across the table and forcing her friend into a hug.

“Mhm, pretty sure I am. I do have one rule though: no partners. I know what you’re like and frankly I can barely put up with one other person in my flat,” Watson cautioned, raising her eyebrows as Agnes held her hands up to protest. 

“I brought that guy back once and I apologized! Besides, it's not like we did anything...not there, at least." Agnes trailed off, getting distracted by memories of her past fling. She shook her head and turned back to Watson. “I don’t get what your deal is anyway. You’re like an amoeba. You never seem interested in other people.” 

“An amoeba?” Watson snorted. “That’s good, I'll give you that. And I  _ am  _ interested in people for being people, I just don’t feel the same needs as you.”

“Oh look at me I’m so special!” Agnes mocked.

“Piss off, it’s not like that.” She laughed. “I’m not pretending to be a sociopath or some bollocks, there are plenty of people like me. I love people, just not romantically, that's all. Anyway, if you’re staying in my house you better not insult the host.” 

“I am sorry lord host, I repent immediately.” Agnes stood up and bowed until her head touched the table, accidentally knocking over Watson's drink in the process. "Oops," she giggled un-apologetically.

Watson rolled her eyes. “I really do hate you, you know.”

* * *

They never did start the mystery club before going back to London. If they had believed in omens, they would have seen this as a warning sign that their friendship wouldn’t be plain sailing all the time—especially since they could hardly agree on which Sherlock novels to check out of the library for vacation.

Two weeks later, having done absolutely nothing except pull some interest together for their club, the two were on the 9:45 am train to King’s Cross. They sat down at a table seat so Watson could lean against the window and stretch her legs out, much to the disapproval of the other travelers. It took 5 minutes for conversation as usual to resume between the two, Watson just now recovering from her regularly scheduled morning bad moods. She turned her head to look out of the window, pausing for a few minutes before she began her onslaught of questioning and psychoanalysis. 

“So, why don’t you go home for the holidays?” Watson asked quietly, in a tone that told Agnes she already knew and was just asking to confirm her theory.

“You already know why." Agnes sipped hot tea from her thermos to avoid talking more and winced as it burned her tongue. 

"I know about your parents, but what about other relatives? Friends? That guy you used to date?"

Agnes chortled, nearly choking on her drink. "Oh god, not that guy, definitely not that guy." She wiped away tears of laughter and grew more solemn. "There's nothing back there for me, Watts. My parents have brainwashed all my relatives to think I'm just another ungrateful child, a traitor to the family. I guess my old friends are alright, but they don't understand me." She reached over and squeezed Watson's hand. "Not like you."

Watson squeezed back. "You've always got me, mate." She paused. "But please stop using that nickname. I sound like a goddamn light-bulb." They laughed as the train hurtled past rolling hills, the two now deep in thought as they prepared for what was waiting for them in London.


	3. A Study in Forums (2013)

_ I just think personally that women should stop complaining. They have their rights, what do they want next? To be treated as actual people? _

Ian read his response over and over, making sure it was grammatically correct, his pointer finger hovering over the enter key. He hadn’t noticed it himself, but his hand was shaking. Whether the shakes were from anxiety of one day being found - secretly knowing deep down that he is, to put it nicely, being a dick - or simply because he was running off a diet of pure energy drinks, he had yet to work out. Radicalisation is a fun word which Ian was no doubt aware of, but he had applied it instead solely to people who didn’t look like thim. He didn’t consider that perhaps a fast flung movement into right wing politics fueled by Youtube videos by people who went to University once, read one book and had the biggest pick-me complex in history, was also slightly unnerving to the general public. Long gone were the days of quietly listening to opposing views in the pub and sheepishly raising a point of objection, it was now all ruining Christmas dinner by questioning the EHRC and claiming he was being silenced on his 10 page long blog, which actually had a wide reach of over 500 people. 

It wasn’t that he hated women (or so he thought), it was just that to him they were responsible for every single bad thing that had ever happened to him or in the world in general. Why couldn’t he get a girlfriend? He was 6’2” after all, which should’ve surely clinched the deal for him. No, it must not be a problem with his attitude, the fact that he never leaves the house or bothers to meet anyone new (in an actual setting, not by harassing a poor girl on the bus who has headphones in), it was simply a problem with women. Fed up with the rejection and the being-ignored, he took to online forums to essentially surround himself with people who only thought as he did. They all egged each other on like the boys in  _ Lord of the Flies, “ _ accidentally” murdering another poor bugger. The problem, of course, with surrounding yourself with people who agree entirely with you is that you begin to accept that A) your version of the truth is entirely correct and B) anyone who disagrees with you really has a secret agenda other than thinking you are an idiot.

Ian lamented over how this even started. He wasn’t sure he entirely remembered, but he was sure it started at University. Uni is tough for anyone, mainly because it’s when you’re expected to have your first everything. Not everyone does, of course, but then again not everyone then takes the lack of those experiences and turns it into a perpetual hatred for half of the human population simply for existing. Ian threw that to one side, instead burying himself in various detective novels and hoping that one day someone might see him reading on the old bridge in town and boldly declare their love for him. They didn’t, of course, because for one so wrapped up in fiction he perhaps forgot that none of it is ever meant to translate over to the real world. When he heard about this new Mystery Club as an out-of-hours club, he couldn’t believe his luck! And ran by someone called Watson! Could you believe it? Ian certainly couldn’t.

The moment that he decided to gingerly step foot into that hall, Ian was on his way to being faced with a choice that would change pretty much everything. He just didn’t know it yet. As he peered around the hall at the empty benches, his eyes fell upon a girl, sitting on the dispatch box, her hair neatly styled into a quiff and dressed in a raggedy old suit.

“Uh… excuse me, do I have the right place?” Ian asked sheepishly, still unsure of if he had actually dreamed up such a club as a result of being so lonely for all those months.

“The debate club is in the smaller hall, i’m afraid,” came the reply, as the figure lifted her head and offered Ian an apologetic smile.

“Oh, no, I meant for the Murder Mystery Club. Sorry to have bothered you.” Ian politely added, beginning to turn before being immediately held in place by two hands on his shoulders.

“No way! Sorry, we just weren’t expecting anyone so soon-” she looked at her watch and scowled. Ian noticed that it was permanently stuck at 3:45. “But we’re glad to have you! I’m Watson, and you must be…” Watson scowls slightly as she attempts to read Ian, but fails.

“Ian.” He hesitantly stretched out his hand, trembling at the thought of a girl touching him. 

“Right, yeah.” Watson mumbled, suddenly noticing just how clammy Ian’s hands were. It reminded her of the eels Christopher would take her to see at the markets occasionally. “Well, the others will be here in a few minutes,” she checked her watch, wondering where the fuck Agnes was, “so could you just sit down over there?”

Watson couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but Ian made her uncomfortable. It’s not that his behaviour warranted such a reaction — after all, he had been perfectly polite — but rather there was something in the way he held your stare. It made you feel less like a prospective friend, and more like prey for a very hungry animal. 

As she started to prep the materials she’d brought for the meeting (just a few pamphlets explaining what the whole group was about), Ian was fidgeting in the corner. He’d picked the bench at the far end of the room to distance himself from the others, but he still felt nervous. There was a girl, and the girl seemed to be the head of the club. He threw his hands up in the air and fretted quietly. This was simply unnatural!   
  


“I presume-“ Ian piped up, clearing his throat, “that you ladies will be the damsel in distress and the assistant?”

“Excuse me?” Watson asked, only lifting her head momentarily before returning to her book. “This isn’t role play, you know. Myself and Agnes run this, which actually either makes you the damsel or the assistant. Or we could, yknow, get along like normal people and solve crimes.”

Ian shut his mouth, unsure of what to say next. He had expected a club where they read about mysteries and act them out. In his head, he’d imagined himself in the role of the great Sherlock Holmes, solving mysteries and saving damsels in distress - only to reject them, since they were never  _ the woman _ . He got a sudden urge to leave - this wasn’t what he wanted at all - but as soon as he got up, people started straggling in through the door.

A flustered Agnes practically barged through the doors first, as if she were a soldier finally breaking through enemy lines. Hair at odd angles and followed by an endless trail of paper, she seemed uncharacteristically nervous, and was partly out of breath. Watson would pretend she deduced this without even  _ looking  _ at her dear friend.

“What is it this time, Agnes?” Watson called out, still reading her book.

“Nothing,” Agnes humphed, plopping down on the bench at the front of the room.

“Is it that boy of yours again?”

“No!” Agnes turned away, pouting to herself.

Of course, it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to work out that it probably was ‘the boy.’ Watson usually didn’t approve of her friends dating choices, but this one took the cake. They had met at a lecture that Agnes was at to impress someone else, and rather than just be honest, Agnes had said she was indeed a student of advanced biology. She actually couldn’t tell her arse from her elbow, but at the time it didn’t seem important. Watson disagreed.

So here she was, three months in (which shocked pretty much everyone) and he hadn’t questioned how someone can be doing both psychology and biology full time. In Agnes’ words, ‘it’s just science, innit?’ at which Watson would scowl and hold back from asking her where exactly the fibular was. 

“So will be seeing your Prince Charming today or is he busy doing actual biology exams? How do you get around that by the way?” Watson asked, only to be on the receiving end of a folder being lobbed at her head.

Suddenly it clicked.

“Oh Agnes surely not. You’re  _ not  _ doing those exams too are you?” 

“Shut up! He should be here soon.” With that, Watson was resigned to laughing purely to herself.

Soon, another person came in. It was a tall, slender boy - well, really, he was a proper man. He had glasses on, but he didn’t look like the type to get bullied. His eyes scanned the room, and seeing the handful of people, he bent over and asked Agnes quietly, “Hello, is this the right place for the mystery club?”

Agnes took one look at his soft blue eyes and smiled, “Why, yes it is.”

“I think you need the seniors club, mate.” Watson mumbled under her breath. 

If Agnes had heard, there surely would have been hell to pay. Watson almost did a double take when she heard a light chuckle from somewhere in the room, wondering if one of Agnes’ boyfriends had finally grown a sense of humour. Her own amusement was cut short when she realised it belonged to Ian, who was watching Agnes intently. If Watson was the kind of person who made mental notes, Ian and the words ‘keep an eye’ as well as ‘’may be interesting’ may have featured.

It had been 20 minutes and no progress had been made thus far, give or take bickering between Watson and Agnes, as well as many snack runs. 

“Right, let’s begin. Who’s for murder?” Watson asked, resisting the urge to rub her hands together in delight. 

This was going to be a good one. 

* * *

  
  


The meeting went fairly well, if you could call tedious ‘well’. Watson rattled off the club rules, which included basic stuff like no racism, homophobia, misogyny - although Ian had a very strong urge to argue that these things should be accepted by the public. After the rules came the explanation of how the whole club would be conducted: they would find local mysteries, past or present, and try their best to theoretically solve them.

No one except the stranger who hadn’t given his name paid any attention. Ian was struggling to keep himself from yelling about the absurdity of two girls leading a mystery club and could barely pay attention. Agnes, meanwhile, was too busy staring at the stranger with a dopey smile on her face. Watson could practically feel the breakup with her boy coming.

Once the formalities were done with, Watson took out a few papers and passed them around. “Here’s our first mystery. You might recognize the title. It’s an old tale about the murder that happened on the school grounds a few decades ago. The police arrested a man for it, but many believe that he wasn’t the real murderer. I’ve collected all of the details available from the school and newspaper records, so let’s all start theorizing based on the information we have.” Watson kicked the toe of Agnes’ boot, making Agnes jump in her seat. “Would you like to start, Agnes?”

Agnes hummed as she read the details. “Well, it says here that there was a knife with thumbprints from a right hand. But then the man arrested was left-handed. So with that alone I’m pretty sure the person they arrested didn’t do it.”

The stranger spoke up and added, “Yes, but he could have easily used his non-dominant hand to throw the police off his scent, especially since forensic science wasn’t that well developed back then.”

Watson turned to face him, mildly interested with his quick response. “Hello, we haven’t been introduced. And you are?”

He smiled and offered his hand. “Alfie.”

Watson practically had to hold herself back from noting that the way he smirked as if he could charm anyone in the room was not reminiscent of Michael Caine in the film ‘Alfie’, but rather a man you would not like to meet in an club at 2am when you’re up to your eyeballs in shots. She could sense Agnes’ eyes practically burning into her back and so she pushed aside any rude thoughts and shook his hand, offering a warm smile.

“So we’ve now got two theories; it either was this fella, or it wasn’t. Any further information anyone… Ian?” Watson asked, smirking as she realised she had caught him completely off guard, making him go red all over. Detective in the making indeed. 

“Uh, well,” he stammered, looking at his copy of the case, “it says here that the entry wound was at an odd angle, as if the murderer was either really close to the victim or...or the victim killed themselves?”

Watson repressed a laugh. “That’s an interesting theory! But if the victim had killed themselves the wound would have been at a much more awkward angle.”

Ian grew even redder and his voice became high-pitched. “How do you know that?”

She gave him a cold look. “I’m a third year in criminology, and we studied stab wounds extensively just recently.”

He immediately shut up and bowed his head, pretending to read more about the case. Agnes and Alfie giggled to themselves, glad that their theories hadn’t been the silliest. Watson made a mental note to reprimand them later. As much as she disliked this Ian character, everyone started somewhere she supposed. 

“Anyway…” Watson continued, shooting Agnes a disapproving look, “any theory is worth a look I guess. Which is why I have something exciting to announce!”

The mood in the room visibly shifted on Watson’s announcement, filling a once docile room with the bustle and excitement of a child’s first football match. Agnes hadn’t even heard the surprise as Watson had left it up to her detective skills to work it out. Agnes however had other ideas — namely watching all seasons of House MD — and so naturally forgot about her task.

“We have a real private detective on his way  _ right now _ to talk to us about real cases!” Watson explained, to cheers and shouts from the group. Now they were really in business. 

They continued theorizing for an hour longer, with only Alfie and Watson taking it seriously (Agnes joined in half-heartedly - she was too busy shooting flirty glances at Alfie). Although Watson encouraged Ian to speak up, he seemed to crawl into a shell after his first failed suggestion. The time passed by quickly, and it was soon time for the detective to arrive. Watson checked her watch. Why wasn’t he here yet? Surely the traffic wasn’t that bad.

Just as she was about to call him, her phone flashed with his number. “Hello?”

“Hello? Is this Watson?” A voice she didn’t recognize spoke. 

  
“Yes, who is asking?”

“I’m a paramedic. Earnest was in a car accident, and he’s on the way to the hospital right now. He said to call you and tell you he won’t be able to make it.”

“Oh my God, what?!” Watson screeched. “Is he going to be okay?”

“I’m sorry, I have to go. I’ll make sure to give your number to the hospital so you can stay updated.” And with that, the paramedic hung up.

Watson wasn’t even sure if she could bring herself to face her expectant peers, knowing she had once again, ballsed it up. She knew it wasn’t really her fault though. Whatever had happened outside of those school walls was inevitable, she supposed. Christopher used to say so.

She cleared her throat and turned to Agnes, eyes wide and signalling that something was wrong. Agnes cocked her head and shook it slightly. Apparently her brain was too busy with Alfie to ‘brain-sync’ with Watson. “Well, uh,” Watson looked down at her phone, “I’m afraid that was a call from a paramedic. Our private detective was involved in a car accident, so he won’t be able to make it today.”

“Oh dear god!” Agnes cried.

Although she was looking down, she could feel the stares boring holes in her body. Alfie cleared his throat. “So I suppose that concludes our first meeting? I have to go to a class in a few.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I’m so sorry to have wasted your time.” She took a peek as Alfie left, seemingly nonchalant. She sighed with relief, until Ian passed by with a maliciously content smirk. As soon as he closed the door, she sat beside Agnes with a frown. “Agnes, what do you think of that Ian guy?”

“I’m not sure… I don’t trust him,” Agnes began, once again avoiding Watson’s eye. “You?”

“Not a clue, mate. I don’t like him but suppose he’s done nothing wrong.”

“Yet.”

Watson would look back on that session in years to come as perhaps the moment where it all went wrong. One minute they were solving shitty crimes like parking violations and who stole from the headmaster’s office, then the next thing they knew they had a death of their own surrounding them. Much like the car crash, only when they would eventually get aboard the train back to London, would they realise that everything was suddenly spinning out of control. 


End file.
